By dawn the Lantern Festival was over. Wren walked the rows along the river, pinching out flame after flame. Every paper lantern died at her touch but one. It hung at the water's edge, glowing a steady gold no breeze could shake. When she reached for it, the little wick leaned away from her fingers and tugged its string, like it wanted her to follow.

Wren untied the string and let the lantern go. Instead of drifting up, it floated forward, low over the path, waiting for her to keep up. "Okay," she whispered. "Lead, then." It bobbed once, like a nod, and started down the riverbank.

The lantern suddenly sped up and darted into the dark woods. Wren chased it, branches whipping past. It weaved between the trees so fast she nearly lost it, until it stopped dead in a small clearing and went still, waiting for her to catch her breath.

In the clearing's center sat a ring of burned-out lanterns, dozens of them, years and years of festivals. Wren's lantern floated to the empty spot in the ring and lowered itself in, the last one home. Together the old lanterns flickered back to life for one warm moment, then went gently dark, finally at rest.